Inside the Box
by Hannah the Scribe
Summary: It's time for the sixtieth Hunger Games, and Iota Oshenic's name has just been called. There's just one little problem: she isn't yet twelve years old. Oneshot. Winner of The Rebel's monthly prompt: box. Rating for violence.


**Inside the Box**

Iota had loathed Reaping Day for as long as she could remember. It wasn't fear―she wasn't yet eligible for the Reaping, at only eleven. It wasn't the idea of the Games―raised in District Four, while it wasn't one of the more vicious, active Career districts, she was taught to respect the Capitol. It wasn't even the boring hours of waiting and waiting while the mayor droned on and on about days so long ago that nobody even cared anymore. There was just something about that _day_ that she hated. It was the atmosphere, it was the tension, it was the feeling of a fine wire about to snap.

She pulled over a stool that sat next to her vanity-style dresser and stood up on it, because otherwise she was too small to properly see herself in the mirror. It was where her name came from―Iota―'an extremely small amount'. She was even born small, and now, eleven years later, she was scarcely 4'11. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress―a rather pretty one that her mother had bought her for her birthday, in her favorite color―aquamarine like the sea. She stretched her short arms, trying to get the brush through her dark brown hair that went just to the middle of her back. She liked it at that length; she wasn't going to listen to those who said that it wasn't practical. Surely, she was still but a child and could be allowed _some _luxury, couldn't she?

"Need some help, sis?" Iota stopped her own struggling to look behind her, where her older sister, Lauren, stood. She nodded, and her sister gently pried the brush from her hand.

_Sometimes, _she mused, _it's a good thing to be the baby of the family. _Lauren, with her athletic build and unevenly tan skin, the bright green eyes, freckles and light brown hair that she got from her father, looked little like her younger sister. Iota, too, had brown hair, but in a much darker shade. Her skin was far paler than that of her two older siblings', and she had her mother's eyes, a baby-blue color.

Their personalities also had little in common. All three of the children―Iota, Lauren, and Trough―in the Oshenic family shared the same kind nature, but the similarities stopped right there. Trough was the outgoing one, the one that was always going over to friend's houses and sporting events. Lauren was the star pupil of her school―the one that got the best score on every test, that got recommended for every extra credit program. _But what makes _me_ special?_ Iota wondered.

Lauren set the brush down again and adjusted Iota's starfish necklace. "Mom wants Trough and I to head the the Reaping early. I'll see you there. Wish me luck!"

With a quick hug, Lauren left Iota alone again.

. . . . .

Iota clung tightly to her mother's hand as they entered the square. Her father stood on the other side of her, looking far away. They found a good place to stand amongst the crowd, only about twenty yards or so from the stage.

The beginning of the Reaping was fine. She had a fair level of patience, and was able to imagine the relief she would feel when their family, whole again, would walk home together afterwards. _Maybe we'll stop for ice cream, too. _

District Four's escort, an older woman named Marisela, approached the large glass bowl that contained all of the names of potential female tributes.

_Not Lauren. Not Lauren. Please, please, please, it's just this _one _year. Please, please, not Lauren. Anyone else, just not her, please…_

"Iota Oshenic!"

A high-pitched scream pierced the air. Iota was sure that it wasn't hers, because she couldn't remember how to make any sounds. Then she sighed. There had to be someone else named Iota Oshenic. There _had _to be. She wasn't eligible for the Reaping! And that meant that this was all said and done for another year.

"Iota Oshenic! Are you here? Is there an Iota Oshenic here?" No one moved an inch.

"Iota Jean Oshenic, please come up to the stage. Iota Oshenic."

That was her. That was her middle name. None of those were common in District Four. She had to go up to the stage. She had to go the Capitol. She had to die.

She clenched her hands into tiny fists and weaved her way amongst the crowd, trying not to cry. She couldn't break down―not here, not now.

Vaguely, she was aware of her parents staring at her with wide eyes, unable to move or speak in pure, petrifying fear.

She walked up the carpet that'd been spread out by the roped-off areas with small, precise steps. A light breeze ruffled her dress and hair, the salty sea spray so achingly familiar that she wondered what would've happened if she hadn't stepped up, if she could just stay here forever like she was supposed to.

_ This. Isn't. Happening. I'm not even twelve yet. I'll just tell them that there must be a mistake. Yes, that's what I'll do. No reason to get upset. No reason at all._

She reached the first step to the stage and almost tripped, suddenly in a rush to get the words out of her mouth. "There has to be a mistake, ma'am," she said, her voice suddenly high-pitched and threatening to break. "I'm Iota Jean Oshenic, but I'm not twelve-years-old yet. There has to be a mistake."

"It's true!" She heard a familiar voice coming from the crowd.

The escort looked down at her over the rim of her glasses, and then laughed. "A mistake?" she asked. "Surely you aren't questioning the Capitol, my dear girl? We don't make mistakes. If the Capitol says you're twelve, you're twelve. And you, missy, just got reaped for the sixtieth Annual Hunger Games. What an honor!"

"THAT ISN'T FAIR!" She heard a screech coming from the eighteen-year-old section. "SHE'S ONLY A _CHILD_, YOU _MONSTER_!" To her horror, Lauren stepped out of her section. Then she turned to the rest of the crowd. "Why aren't you doing something? She _can't _get reaped, she's only a little girl―"

_Crack!_

Iota saw the bullet fly, and Lauren fell to the floor. "LAUREN!" She was fairly sure that it was Trough that screamed.

"Are there any volunteers?" Marisela looked over the crowd. "I didn't think so."

Tears ran down Iota's face. "B-b-but I-I c-can't f-fight. I… I-I'm not a-a-a C-Career. I c-can't w-win. I-I'm n-not even… not even…" A strangled sob escaped her, breaking the silence settled over the square. "I'M NOT EVEN TWELVE! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

"Oh, but I'm afraid we can, dear," Marisela said, patting Iota's shoulder. "You must be mistaken, yourself. If you're in the Reaping, you're twelve-years-old already."

"BUT I'M NOT!" Iota screamed. "PLEASE! I'M NOT _CRAZY!"_

. . . . .

Iota sat on the edge of her bed on the train, tracing circles in the rich carpeting with her feet. She'd said goodbye to her family, or, what was left of it, because she had to die. There was no way that she wasn't going to die. She wouldn't even be accepted into the Career pack, or _any _alliance for that matter.

Her parents and Trough had wept and hugged her and told her that she was going to be fine. They said that she would prove the Capitol wrong, and that she would win. They said that she'd find a way to get through it.

But she couldn't function. She hadn't even looked up at the cameras at the train station, hadn't answered any of their questions. She hadn't answered any of the knocks on her door, whether it was Marisela or her mentor, Mags, or her district partner… whatever his name was. Did it matter?

Her prep team hated her the moment that they saw her. "So _tiny_!" they all said, thick Capitol accents almost slurring the words. "We scarcely have anything to work with! Even that _awful _girl last year was better than this!"

Her stylist never said one word to her, merely dismissed the prep team for the day and set Iota's costume for the opening ceremonies down next to where she was seated, then left.

Iota put on the small dress, covered in mock fish-scales, and cried again.

. . . . .

Training and the interviews passed quickly; no one ever gave her a second glance. Caesar wished her luck during her interview, but Iota had merely shook her head and said, "I'm going to die. We all know that."

Her training score was one of the lowest of the group―a _four, _just because she'd missed the target a couple of times when she'd tried out the knives. The night before the Games, she had no allies, and no chance.

. . . . .

Her tribute plate brought her up to the arena. Iota and her fellow tributes were standing in the middle of a snowy plain below a clear blue sky. All around her―mountains, covered in soft, powder snow and sweet-smelling pine trees. Beautiful. She'd never seen snow before, and she wanted to touch it, but knew that if she did before the gong went off, she'd be blown into a million little pieces.

_Time to play the Games, Iota._

From this moment on, she was going to play to win. No matter what.

As fast as she could, not knowing how much time she had left, she took off the starfish necklace that she'd worn to the Reaping, and, now, into the arena. With the turtleneck sweater, scarf, and thick coat she was wearing, as all the tributes were, it was a bit hard, but she had it off in plenty of time. She balled the necklace up in her hand and threw it at the ground in front of a tribute standing a few plates over from her. Then she braced herself, planting her feet firmly and closing her eyes for just a moment.

The land mine in front of that tribute went off with a bang almost as loud as the gong, and a cannon fired as the boy was blown to shreds. Another tribute on the other side of the Cornucopia, but still in Iota's view, had started to run forwards, thinking that the explosion was the gong going off, and her land mines also exploded, a second cannon firing.

Iota grinned, and before it could fade off her face, the real gong signaled the start of the Games. She raced forwards, grabbed a small backpack that was just a few feet away and slung it over one shoulder, then ducked to avoid a knife thrown at her. It scarcely missed, and she retrieved it off of the ground that it had landed on.

Then she turned towards the mountainside and ran, without looking back.

. . . . .

That night, Iota was sitting on a bit of ground that she'd cleared the snow from, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. Her knife was sitting just next to her, right within her reach. She went through the contents of her backpack with caution―a small box of matches, a first aid kit, a package of trail mix, and an empty water bottle.

An idea drifted its way into her mind, and she smiled.

She opened up the first aid kit, rustling through its contents until she found what she was looking for: the glossy piece of paper that had a list of everything inside the box and a pen, she suspected for the purpose of checking off items that had been used. She tore the list up into strips of paper and flipped them over so that they were all blank.

In her most careful handwriting, on the first piece, she wrote: "Each district will submit one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen every year." She underlined the age range.

On the next, she wrote: "No Panem citizen will be persecuted without a fair trial."

And on the third were the words: "Each tribute will be given a training score based on their skill, intellect, and physical ability between one and twelve, the higher the number being the better the score." The test hadn't been able to sense her true intellect.

All of the rules that her current situation broke, or seemed to.

She emptied the contents of the first-aid kit into her backpack, and sealed the three slips of paper inside the empty container. Clearing another piece of ground, she stuck a match and lit a fire.

Iota Oshenic placed the box into the flames and watched it burn.

**END**


End file.
